He gave her an odd look, then said, “I’m here to take over as editor and publisher for Southern Yesteryears.”
“Now I know I’m dreaming. You were never interested in the past.
“I wasn’t?”
“That’s one reason you were such a good reporter. You didn’t care about yesterday’s news. The only thing that mattered to you was what was happening now.”
Confusion filled his eyes. “You came here for a job designing Southern Yesteryears, didn’t you?”
“Well, yes, but—” She shook her head to clear her fuzzy brain of confusion. The action didn’t help. “That’s not what I asked you. How is it possible you’re here? The Commercial Appeal said you died in a helicopter crash in Nicaragua.”
He nodded jerkily, his face tight. “I did, for all practical purposes.”
He was talking in circles.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
He stared at her for a long moment, then sat in the chair next to the couch. “Who are you?”
She blinked. “Who am I? You know perfectly well who I am. I’m Emma Lockwood. Emma Gr—”
“I know your name.” he said impatiently. “How do you know me?”
“How do I know you?” She studied his dark, unreadable face.
Red flags waved in her head like tree limbs in a violent thunderstorm. She suddenly remembered that Rafe had always answered questions with questions when he had something to hide or wanted to avoid a conversation. “What kind of game are you playing?”
“This is no game, I assure you. Please tell me who you are.”
More confused than ever, Emma stared at him. What was he trying to pull? Why would he disappear for six and a half years, then suddenly show up, acting as if he didn’t know her?
Unless...
She remembered her father snidely suggesting Rafe had faked his death to escape marriage.
It’s how those half-breeds operate, her father had told her.
Emma had bitterly defended Rafe against her father’s incredulous accusations. There’d been no doubt in her mind that Rafe had loved her.
Now... What else could it be?
She clenched her eyes. She couldn’t think straight. Her mind still couldn’t comprehend the fact that he was sitting here talking to her, much less figure out how or why.
Her eyes opened. Only Rafe could answer those questions. “Where have you been for the past six and a half years?”
He hesitated, then in a low, tight voice, answered, “In hell. How about you?”
Another question for a question.
Emma’s heart disintegrated, leaving an aching, yawning hole in her chest. “My father was right, wasn’t he? You left me.”
He leaned back, the surprise on his face answering her accusation.
Her entire body went numb. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t feel her heartbeat, couldn’t even blink. She felt the way she’d felt the day she learned he’d died. Like her whole world had suddenly blown apart.
“Why did you come back? Did you think I still lived in Nashville ? Or had Memphis grown so big you thought you wouldn’t run into me?”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“You left me. Alone. Do you know what my father put me through?” Hot tears stung her eyes. She rapidly blinked them away. “Of course you do. You knew exactly what he’d do when he found out. You just didn’t care, did you?”
“Of course I...I mean I don’t—” He plowed his hands back through his hair. “This is so sudden. I don’t know what—”
“Sudden?” she cried. “You call six and a half years sudden?”
“Calm down. Please. I just want to—”
“To hell with what you want.” If she sat there another second she’d either scratch his eyes out or start bawling. She didn’t know which would be worse. To avoid either, she stood. Evading the hand he reached out to stop her, she walked to the door on legs so numb she could barely feel them.
He rose from the chair. “Please listen—”
“Listen to what? You’re not saying anything.” Feeling his ring roll against her heaving chest, she stopped and snatched it from under her blouse. “I don’t need this anymore.”
The ring hit him solidly in the chest. He caught it against his shirt, but the broken chain slithered to the floor.
Emma watched it pool on the blue industrial grade carpet. The last thing she had left to believe in. Gone.
“Please let me explain.” He took a step toward her. “This isn’t something I broadcast, but... have amnesia. I don’t know who you are.”
“Amnesia?” She hesitated. Could it be true?
She wanted desperately to believe him, to believe he hadn’t deserted her, to believe in the love she’d clung to like a lifeline all these years.
She studied his dark, earnest face, still so handsome it took her breath away. She wanted to trace the scar that marred his left cheek. She ached to taste his lips again. It had been so long since she’d felt strong, loving arms around her. She’d been so lonely.
But amnesia? That story had more holes than a spaghetti strainer. The largest being why didn’t he or his parents call her when they found him? She’d talked to his mother several times, begged Mrs. Johnson to call if there was any word. True, she hadn’t told his mother they were married. She’d thought the woman had enough to deal with. But she’d made it perfectly clear she was a good friend of Rafe’s and cared what happened to him. Mrs. Johnson had assured Emma she would call if they learned anything, but she never did.
The only conclusion Emma could come to was that Rafe must’ve told her not to call. So it all came back to the glaring fact that he didn’t want her. He even used his middle name now, probably hoping she wouldn’t recognize it. He hadn’t counted on her answering his ad.
She wished like hell she hadn’t.
“I may have been born at night, but not last night.” Her voice sounded tired, sad. Her movements were wooden as she took her purse from the table and pulled open the door. “Goodbye, Rafe.”
Rafe sank back onto the chair. She didn’t believe him.
He laughed mirthlessly. How could he expect her to? Amnesia was a story line from one of those sleazy tabloids they sell at grocery checkout stands. That’s what he was—a damned sideshow.
He’d evidently left her in the lurch when he went on assignment. They must’ve been dating.
He lifted the ring she’d hurled at him. It was still warm from being nestled between her breasts. The thought caused a flash of heat to sear deep into his flesh. The reaction surprised him. He hadn’t even thought about wanting a woman since he’d awakened in the nearest thing to hell there was on Earth. Why bother? No woman would want him, not after they saw his body.
Shoving aside the unwanted, unsatisfiable desire, he examined the ring. It was a gold class ring from the University of Texas. The date was eleven years ago. He twisted it in the light to read the initials inscribed inside.
He stood on a podium, in cap and gown, approaching the president of the university. As he reached for his diploma, the ring his mother insisted on buying for him glinted in the spotlights.
Startled by the sudden flash of memory, he dropped the ring. They popped up so unexpectedly, from out of nowhere. Like shooting stars.
Was that how memories worked? He’d thought you controlled your memories, recalling them at will.
Breathing deep to settle his suddenly rapid pulse, he waited, but nothing else came. So much for control.
He picked the ring up and focused again on the initials inside. RDJ. Raphael David Johnson. Since he knew he’d attended the University of Texas from the diploma hanging on the den wall at home, he knew both the memory and the ring were his.
Why did Emma Lockwood have it? It was the kind of ring high school kids used to go steady. Is that what she’d been to him? A steady girlfriend? He’d only lived in Memphis six months when he got the job at the Denver Post, having worked his way up the reporting ladder i
n the Seripps-Howard chain. Was that enough time for him to become serious about a woman? Had they been engaged? This wasn’t exactly an engagement ring. And he knew he’d had enough money in the bank to buy her a diamond, if that had been the case.
Damn.
He rested an elbow on one knee to support his aching head.
What the hell was he supposed to do now? This was why he’d come to Memphis, to find out about his past. Emma Lockwood seemed to hold the key, but he doubted she’d even come to the phone if he called, and a phone number was all he had for her.
Then his eye caught on a black corner peeking out from under the table. Standing, he slipped the ring into his shirt pocket and walked over to pull out a slim leather case. Her portfolio.
Curious, he unzipped it and spread her work on the table. Then smiled.
She was good. So good, he’d have hired her on the spot. This was the graphic artist he needed for Southern Yesteryears.
He pulled out an ad she’d created for an old-fashioned doll. This was exactly the look he wanted for his publication—something that appealed to women. In fact, this was the kind of ad he saw running in the refurbished, commercialized magazine he’d created in his head.
Then he spied a small piece of paper attached to the inside of the case. Her personal business card, complete with address and phone numbers.
Now he could find her. He needed Emma Lockwood—for himself and Southern Yesteryears.
She had the power to save them both.
Chapter Two
Emma killed the engine of her four-year-old Saturn and looked around blankly. She was home, parked in her usual spot in the protection of the carriage house that now served as their garage. Though she’d driven clear across town, her mind was in such upheaval she didn’t remember a single mile.
The only thought she could hold on to, the only fact that mattered, was Rafe betrayed her—far worse than she’d ever believed.
It had been a betrayal of sorts, his dying. But at least he couldn’t have helped that. No one chose to die. This...
This was a conscious act.
Her hands closed like a vise around the steering wheel when she remembered how stalwartly she’d defended him. After he’d “died,” she’d stood up to her father for a whole month, enduring Cecil Grey’s verbal and sometimes physical abuse.
Only after she’d been certain Rafe wasn’t coming back—when the search for his body had been officially called off—did she give in to her father’s orders to marry the man he’d handpicked for her from among Memphis’s elite society. At that point, she’d have done anything to escape.
She’d endured almost two years of trying to fit herself into Jerry’s life in Nashville. The first time he slapped her, however, she left. She wasn’t going to put up with physical abuse from anyone anymore. She returned to Memphis, but since her father was just an older version of Jerry, she didn’t move back home until her father died.
All this time, despite all she’d gone through, she’d believed Rafe had loved her. Her certainty was the only thing that sustained her when hope of seeing him again was gone; through the dark days married to a man she didn’t love; when her father tried to force her back into the arms of an abusive husband.
Little by little, her faith in the goodness of life had been destroyed, until all she had to cling to was her trust in Rafe’s love.
Now even that was gone. The last thing she had left to believe in had been shattered as completely as her heart had been, six and a half years ago.
What was she going to do now? How could she pretend her life hadn’t been turned upside down and inside out? How was she going to get through each day?
“Mom!”
Emma blinked as a small ball of energy flew around the back of the car and skidded to a halt beside it.
“You’re home early! Did you get the job? Can I stay up and watch the Braves game? It’s on channel three instead of cable. Randy gets to watch. Can I, too, please? Huh? Can I?”
With a tired smile, Emma opened the door and drew her five-year-old son into her arms. Her self-pitying questions had been answered quickly. Gabe was her walking, talking, running, throwing reason for living. Having him made her look forward to getting up every morning.
He suffered her embrace for a moment, then wriggled away. Looking at her quizzically, he asked, “You been crying?”
With a frown, Emma swiped at the tear tracks on her cheeks. Never once had she let him see her cry. “I was...I had to drive into the sun, and it hurt my eyes.”
Technically it wasn’t a lie. The sun, intensified by tears, had hurt her eyes as she drove home.
Luckily her son’s one-track mind accepted her explanation. “Can I stay up, Mom? The Braves game is on our TV! Can I, Mom? Please?”
Ever since Randy went to an Atlanta Braves game last summer, the boys had been die-hard Braves fans. Gabe only got to see his team play at Randy’s house because most of the Atlanta games were on cable. Cable television was one expense their household did without.
“Randy gets to,” Gabe argued.
Randy Jenkins was Gabe’s best friend, by virtue of the facts that they were the same age, that Randy lived two doors down and that Emma’s mother took care of him on weekdays while his parents worked, like she took care of Gabe. Randy’s father was a research doctor at St. Jude Children’s Hospital, and his mother was an assistant prosecutor for the city. They could afford cable. They could afford anything. It was impossible to compete with their money, so Emma didn’t even try.
“What did Gams say?” she asked her son. Gams was the name Gabe had bestowed on his grandmother when he first started talking.
“She said I had to ask you.”
No wonder he’d come tearing around the house like a tiny tornado. Emma hesitated. On one hand, she wasn’t up to dealing with Gabe’s excess energy for several extra hours tonight. On the other, she knew she wouldn’t have to. If they let him chase fireflies until dark, gave him a warm bath, then settled down with him in front of the TV, he’d be asleep before the first commercial. “Okay, I guess. Is Gams on the back porch?”
Gabe nodded, then gave her an enthusiastic hug. “Thanks, Mom!”
She soothed her conscience by promising herself she’d record the game for him. They did have a VCR, several years old but still running.
“Did you get the job?” her son asked eagerly.
Emma shook her head. “No.”
His face fell. “That means I don’t get my own room.”
“Not for a while. I’m sorry.”
The roof had gotten so bad they’d had to abandon the second floor of the house altogether. They lived entirely on the first, which meant Gabe had to sleep with her in what was once the front parlor.
On the plus side, not having to air-condition the top floor cut their utility bill considerably.
Emma smoothed a lock of hair back from Gabe’s forehead. “Go tell Gams I’ll be there in a minute, okay?”
“Okay, Mom.” Gabe ran out of the garage. Her son didn’t walk anywhere. He zoomed.
With a sigh, Emma turned to grab her purse. Her hand paused over the well-worn leather. Something was missing. Her portfolio. Where—
With a groan she leaned her head on the steering wheel. She’d left it in the conference room at the motel. She’d been so upset when she left she didn’t even remember she’d brought it.
What would Rafe think about her work? Would he bother to open it? Would he even see the thin, black leather case? It must’ve fallen under the table when she dropped it, or she’d have stepped on it on her way out.
She’d call the motel tomorrow, to see if someone had turned it in. The samples inside the case could be replaced. She’d taken them from the files of jobs she’d done for Harrison Printing over the last four years. But the portfolio itself was an expensive one. Her mother had given it to her for Christmas her first year as a graphic arts student at the University of Memphis. She’d hate to lose it.
The possibi
lity that Rafe would return it popped into her mind, making her breath catch, but she quickly dismissed the notion. He hadn’t bothered to contact her for six and a half years.
If he didn’t care about his own son enough to call, he certainly wasn’t going to bother with her old portfolio.
A few minutes later Emma stepped onto the screened back porch. Her mother sat in her favorite rocking chair in the shadows that were deepening in the twilight.
Emma laid her purse on a wicker table and sat in the cushioned chair beside it. “Gabe’s still going strong, I see.”
“He’s already caught twenty-two lightning bugs in that bug box of his.” Sylvia Grey smiled. “I’ve heard about every single one.”
A whoop of triumph came from her son who ran toward the porch, holding his bug box aloft. “Twenty-three!”
“We’re stopping at twenty-five, okay?” Emma called. “It’s time for your bath.”
“Awww, Mom.”
“Twenty-five or fifteen minutes, whichever comes first. You want to watch the game, don’t you?”
“Oh, yeah. Okay.” He chased after another bug.
“Gabe said you didn’t get the job,” her mother said quietly.
“No, I didn’t.”
“How can you know so quickly? Did the man already hire someone?”
“No. I don’t know. I mean...” Emma took a deep breath. “You’ll never guess who I ran into at the interview. Never in a million years.”
Obviously sensing her agitation, her mother threw a worried glance her way. “Who?”
“Rafe.”
The name hung between them on the humid June air, like a mosquito looking for its next source of blood.
Finally her mother said, “Surely you don’t mean your Rafe.”
“My Rafe?” Emma laughed bitterly. “No. He’s certainly not my Rafe.”
Sylvia stopped the rocking motion of her chair, a sure sign of her distress. “How is that possible? He’s dead.”
“Apparently not.” Emma shrugged, but the gesture felt far from nonchalant. “I guess Dad was right. I guess...” She paused to keep her voice from cracking. “I guess he didn’t want me. Or Gabe.”
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